


beer and bacon happy hour.

by outpastthemoat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x10, Bars, Beer and Bacon Happy Hour, Bestest Friends, Crack, Dean and Cas are best friends, Drinking, Fluff, Kisses, M/M, Post-Purgatory, Schmoop, Season gr8, Torn and Frayed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem is that Dean’s been having good ideas all night.</p><p>“No one insults the trenchcoat,” Dean says, and drives his fist into the other dude’s face.</p><p>Dean figures he was bound to run out of good ideas eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beer and bacon happy hour.

The problem is that Dean’s been having good ideas all night.

“No one insults the trenchcoat,” Dean says, and drives his fist into the other dude’s face.

Dean figures he was bound to run out of good ideas eventually.  

He’d had his first good idea back in the Impala, playing  _stake-out-the-demonic-warehouse_  with the angel in his passenger seat.  

“Hey, what do you say - this doesn’t pan out, we head back to that beer-and-bacon happy hour about a mile back, huh?” he asks casually.

Cas gives him a frown.  ”Why would we do that?” he asks, and Dean shoots him an incredulous look.

“‘Cause that’s what best friends do together, feather-brain,” he retorts.  ”Normal friends hang out, shoot the shit, play poker and drink beer.   _Normal friends_  don’t spend their quality time together vaporizing demons and chasing holy rocks.”    

Cas stares at him speculatively, and Dean fully expects some kind of dry retort laced with angelic sarcasm about how Dean has never been particularly bothered about being  _normal_ before, but that’s not what happens _._

“Best friends?” Cas asks, confusion evident, and his quiet astonishment at those words just  _hurts_  Dean somehow, and all Dean knows is he has to make it right. 

So that’s when Dean implements his first good idea.

And yeah, the beer-and-bacon happy hour is pretty much living up to its name.  There’s cheap beer on tap and free baskets of bacon on their table, and it certainly is a happy hour because Dean is gloriously buzzed, mindlessly content, and generally happy as fuck and all signs point towards this being the best idea  _ever_.

Dean’s finally enjoying himself for once, going over the rules of pool with Cas leaning over his shoulder, the crease in his forehead unusally deep.

“Physics,” says Cas loftily when he wins the first game, and then the second, and okay, with Cas’s card-counting skills and incredible poker face, Dean really needs to take him to Vegas, like  _yesterday_ , and for a crucial moment Dean’s lost in gleefully imagining dressing up in a tux and maybe getting Cas into one, too, and the look on Sam’s stupid face when they’d break the house, and that’s when Cas wins the third game too.

And Dean thinks his next idea is pretty good, too, because the bacon-and-habanero-pepper mojito he’s drinking doesn’t taste all that bad and hey, he’s a sucker for the daily special.

He’s well on his way to getting drunk at the bar, and when Cas wrinkles his nose after sipping on an apple-bacon martini, garnished with a strip of bacon instead of green olives, Dean’s heart stutters inside his chest and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if maybe this isn’t normal best-friend behavoir after all.

But the mojito’s going over well, and that leads Dean to his next good idea, which is to grab the sleeve of Cas’s trenchcoat and haul him towards the last remaning booth in the bar, tucked in a dimly-lit corner by the pool tables.

Cas looks down curiously at where Dean’s hand is holding his wrist, but he follows Dean willingly enough, and Dean pulls Cas in the booth right next to him, almost close enough for their arms brush against each other.

Then comes the idea he’s  _particularly_  proud of at the moment, which is to casually wrap his arm around Cas’s shoulders.

“This is what best friends do, Cas,” he tells him cheerfully, raising his mojito to Cas.

Cas stares reflectively at the beer in his hand.  ”I don’t think I’m much of a friend, Dean,” he says, and Dean doesn’t have to look at his face to know Cas is thinking thoughts about playing God and breaking walls and wrecking general and specific havoc on the world.

“‘Couse you are,” Dean says scathingly. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Cas,” he says, and Cas looks up from slowly peeling off his label at that, eyes opening wide.  

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” Dean says, wanting to make things right, wanting to get things cleared up between them once and for all, but Cas winces, like he feels that Dean might be better off somewhere else besides Geneva, Nebraska’s local bar.  

Some part of Dean is dubiously thinking it  _might_  be a good idea to take that arm around Cas's shoulders and slide his hand across the edge of the table to take hold of the cuff of Cas’s sleeve instead, but he doesn’t.  He’s about to say,  _“I missed you, buddy;”_ he’s about to list for Cas all the ways in which Cas is the best friend he’s ever had.  

But Dean doesn’t say anything right then because he’s just been struck by another idea, a really good one this time, and like all his good ideas tonight it’s a good idea about Cas, and here it is:

One of these days he’s gonna ask Cas on a date, and Cas is gonna say yes.

The idea comes out of nowhere, and it stuns Dean into silence, because this idea is one that’s about the furtherest from best-friend behaviour he’s ever had. 

And what’s more, he’s starting to think  _now_  would be a whole lot better than  _one of these days_ , because no time like the present, right? 

“You ever been on a date, Cas? Dean asks, his mouth suddenly dry, leaning forward to look into Cas’s eyes, because it’s somehow very important to make sure Cas understands about dates.

“That depends on the parameters of your definition of a date,” Cas tells him.

“Don’t be coy,” Dean says, waving a finger in Cas’s face until he pushes Dean’s hand away with distain. “It’s a yes or no kind of question.”

“No, then,” Cas says succintly and Dean’s not even surprised.  Mostly triumphant, for some reason he can’t quite get a handle on.

“Well, would you like to?” Dean asks, and hopes feverently he can hear Cas’s answer over the roaring in his ears.

“I don’t know,” Cas says, and Dean’s heart sinks somewhere around his shoes.

That’s when an indivual speciman of the local species of asshole decides to come up to their table and send a particularly nasty slur their way, questioning the cleanliness and moral character of Cas’s trenchcoat.

And yeah, there’ve been dudes shooting him and Cas bitchfaces all night long, but Dean hasn’t been paying them the slightest bit of attention up until now.  He’s been too busy reveling in Cas’s presence, because all he wants is one evening of Cas’s attentive stares before he flutters off to die in some other dimension.

Cas simply looks down at his lapels with a slight frown and then blankly back up, and okay, probably the guy doesn’t care either way if he’s being insulted or not, and fuck knows how many times Dean’s done the insulting himself.  And okay, so maybe Cas looks kind of out of place, hanging out at the local excuse for Saturday night entertainment, sitting at their booth in Jimmy Novak’s Sunday best and looking as solemn as if he’d just been to a funeral.  

But when Dean had suggested that Cas mojo himself into something more comfortable Cas had just  _looked_  at him and said gravely, “I  _am_  comfortable,” and Dean figured, what the hell, and blithely supposed that was the end of that.  And granted, every hick as far as the eye can see is dressed like Dean, rocking the denim and plaid look, but just because Cas insists on keeping the suit and tie that doesn’t mean anyone gets to insult the trenchcoat.

Because no, oh no, Dean didn’t haul that stupid coat from car to car for almost a year only to have some jerk go off making fun of it.  It’s stupid, it’s borderline crazy, but all Dean knows is that the insult bugs him in a way he’s never felt particuarly bothered on his own behalf, when he’s been the recipient of a casual slur.

And it’s because Cas hasn’t done anything, nothing at all to warrant the insult, he’s just sitting here quietly next to Dean, being his usual inscrutable self, looking around the bar with a faint air of curiosity and peeling the label of his beer with a high degree of concentration, and Cas has enough problems, okay, without getting mocked for wearing that portable security blanket of an overcoat. 

And anyway he’s only here because Dean made him come, practically forced the idea down his throat because  _goddamnit_ , Dean’s life hasn’t stood still long enough enough for him to catch a break, just to close his eyes in silent relief because Cas isn’t dead today. 

These assholes get to drink beer and play pool here every Saturday night with their best friends, and meanwhile Dean hasn’t had a moment to spend with  _his_  best friend that didn’t involve beating up on demons and he’s not even being allowed to enjoy this, and an ugly sort of anger flares up inside Dean because it’s not  _fair._

So Dean stands up and swings, leaning into the punch with all his weight behind his fist.

But that’s about all he can manage before he hits the floor.

And maybe this dude thinks this bar isn’t Cas’s kind of scene, but Dean can confirm that is a lie, this is  _exactly_  Cas’s sort of scene, because right now Cas is proving how much of his kind of scene it is by kicking dude’s ass.  

“This is my best friend Cas,” Dean says with dignity, and the bar cheers as Cas half-hauls him out the door.

“That was not a good idea,” Cas tells him, half-carrying him to the Impala.  ”What were you thinking?”  

“It’s like some kind of bad joke,” Dean says, avoiding the question because he’s really not certain of the answer.  ”The Rightous Man and a fallen angel walk into a bar.” Dean says, wincing, and  _shit_  because he didn’t not just fucking  _whimper_.  

 _This is my life_ , Dean thinks dejectedly, his moose of a brother is somewhere getting screwed by a hot veterinarian who obviously wants to be with him, and meanwhile Dean can’t even score a date with the angel who’d pulled him from hell, probably while wearing the same look of saintly exasperation that’s currently all over his face as he props Dean up against the side of the Impala.

Cas cuts right through his thoughts, leaning directly into Dean’s personal space.

“About dates,” he says.  ”Would a date be anything like tonight?”

Dean just stares at him for a minute.  ”Maybe with less fighting,” he says weakly.

“Oh,” Cas says thoughtfully.  ”I’d like that.”

Dean just stares at him blankly for a long moment, because shit, Dean’s having another idea and it’s telling him  _do it do it do it_  and he’s not sure exactly what that means, except it has something to do with Cas’s face, tilted quizzically, brow furrowed in concern and mouth slightly open, and oh yeah, Cas’s mouth, that reminds him-

but somehow his mouth has found its way to Cas’s or Cas’s found its way to Dean’s and it doesn’t really matter, because both their mouths are working together on this, in that same easy partnership they have when working on a case, and he’d like to share that thought with Cas but it looks like that might be difficult to do with his tounge in Cas’s mouth.

Yeah, a beer-and-bacon happy hour?  Best idea ever.


End file.
